Quack! Quack! I am on the rack,
You promised to end my pain;
For a little wealth you'd restore my health
You said; yet here I've lain
For weary weeks and for mournful months,
With pangs that are only known
To the tortured victim of the Quack,
When his faith to the winds has flown. Death's shadow falls on my barren walls,
It sleeps on my chamber floor,
Its marrowless bones mock at my groans,
And point to the shining shore,
While a jeering, mocking, ugly grin
Spreads over its fleshless face
At a double triumph—the Quack's success,
And the Quack's supreme disgrace.
